Gargouille
by She Side Walks
Summary: A modern twist on Phantom of the Opera. Nadya (Christine) balances coping with her father's death with the opportunity to study ballet in Paris, France. While there, she is hated by the other ballerinas but befriended by the critic Rurik (Raoul). Yet, she keeps a secret, spending her nights enthralled by a hauntingly beautiful voice. Erik/Christine; T for language, might be bumped
1. Chapter 1

The crisp, eggshell envelope sat unassumingly in her hands. Scrutinizing it, tendrils of dark brown hair began to fall around her sharp face haphazardly. With golden lettering, precise stamping, and the logo of Butler University's Center of the Arts in the left-hand corner, the day had finally come: The response to her application for a study abroad program in Paris, France.

Nervous, her fingers tingled with suspense as her throat became thick. She couldn't open such a thing here, next to the rusty mailbox, with dirty, residential cars passing lazily by. In fact, her dorm room did not seem appropriate either. This occasion required dignity, with a drum roll, and the bated breath of an audience.

However, there wasn't such a place on campus, so she decided to seek solitude in the familiar ballet studio, the one she had just returned from after a long day of practice. With a windbreaker on that was two sizes too big for her, a pair of black, elastic pants, a worn gym bag thrown over her shoulder, and hair tied in a messy, unraveling bun, she hardened her mouth into a firm line.

Exhausted and yet resolute, she turned briskly away from the cookie-cutter mailboxes, and whisked out the door.

It was a cool day, spring was right around the corner but winter's jealousy still permeated. Occasionally a threatening gust would make the large envelope waver in her grasp, forcing her to hold on all the more tightly. Hardly breathing, she picked up the pace, passing couples and laughing groups of friends enjoying the windy twilight.

It was her second year at Butler in Indianapolis, but she did not have the good graces to make any sort of long lasting friendship. There had been the glimmer of freshmen year where everyone threw out their nets and hoped to catch a companion, but hers turned out to be old boots. They moved on, and so did she. It was nothing personal, just business.

In class she would form alliances when it was needed, but once the war was over, there was no purpose to continue. Plus, she had never been a great power. There was only one thing that ever piqued her interest: The arts.

She had been raised in it, both her parents had long heritages of musicians, dancers, composers...Hell, her folks had met on the stage. Well, her father had been below it, playing the violin while her mother danced classically. Captivated by her beauty and skill and she, impressed with his dedication... the rest was history.

Her father, Sasha, had been on a scholarship to America from Russia, while her mother, Natalie, came from a relatively wealthy family in Connecticut who had supported her throughout college. Yet, their union was unwelcomed by both families. Sasha's parents forbid him to stay in the States longer than what was necessary while Natalie's were suspicious of the 'Sovs', for the Cold War had only been "over" for a few years.

Smiling as she walked, she remembered how indignant her parents were, how they cut themselves off from everyone they loved and never looked back just because their passion was that strong. They had never been willing to compromise, if their families could not see that, then blood no longer mattered.

From the shiny, glittery East Coast, they moved to the tumbleweeds: Indiana. She had always wondered what had motivated them for such a choice, but it was clear that home was where the family was, and perhaps the east had too many memories of the last one.

Mom's parents never spoke a word to her again, but dad's grandparents in Russia had apparently sought reconciliation. There were a few letters tucked away in her father's old violin case. Perhaps he had reached back, perhaps not.

Thinking of dad, her heart gave a squeeze. It had only been a couple years since his death. It was why she never learned to drive, why she went to a college in her backyard, and why she loved music. A car had taken him away, and so she would never own one. But his spirit remained in the strings of his Stentor, in the lessons he taught her when she could barely walk, let alone read notes.

Although she never developed a skill for instruments, it did not mean that the world of music and arts excluded her. She found another way in: Ballet. At first she was afraid of disappointing her father. From an early start it was clear she had a musical ear, able to judge pitch extremely well, but dad was just as thrilled as mom. In his mind, they could be a trio: he would play and mom and her would dance, around and around they would go.

Sparkling memories crashed over her, this envelope was so much more than just an opportunity. It was a séance, a way to remember and pay homage to her father's spirit. She knew he would be proud of her. She could practically see his crinkled expression as he grinned impishly, dark blue eyes holding a secret but displaying a vulnerable, pure affection just for her.

And they did have a secret shared, one that even her mother had never known.

Nadya could sing.

Not trained, but able to spot talent when he saw it, her father encouraged her and attempted to guide her as she realized that there was an instrument within. It was hidden in the depths of her insecurity, but he managed to coax it out. Although unwilling to believe him at first, he still reminded her over and over that she was special, that in all the impressive generations before there had not been a single singer. She was to be the first.

For many years they would sneak out and find a secluded place, somewhere where her bashfulness would fade. It quickly became a favorite activity for both of them. Even when recitals and work were difficult, they would always make time. The best being at night, under the canopy of stars, where every note seemed enchanted.

The image of the two of them filled her thoughts, so she did not realize she had arrived at the quaint building until it was staring at her. Facing her blurry reflection in the glass of the doors, she shook her head out of the past, and yanked on the handle, crashing back to reality.

She did not sing anymore.

* * *

"I got in!" she practically screamed into the small cell-phone.

The once pristine piece of paper was now scrunched excitedly in her fist. After arriving, she had settled calmly on the sleek, wooden floor, unable to bring herself to rip it open. It was technically after hours, but she knew the janitor closed late. In the semi-darkness of twilight, she took a breath and a moment to lower her expectations.

Surgeon-like, she separated the manila from its contents, trying to avert her gaze as it came out. Gold lettering sparkled in her peripheral, the response itself looked long, and she was debating whether that was a good sign or not when her tempted eye spotted the word 'Congratulations'. Not wasting a second after that, she whipped out her mangy phone and speed-dialed her mom.

As it rang, she hungrily read the acceptance letter, basking in its glory. It rambled on about payments and financial aid, things that would not dare to stop her now, and then was signed by the Dean of Performing Arts. When she was just about to tear her hair out, a throaty voice finally answered, and this was when she had shrieked the news.

"Nadya, slow down!" came the reply.

At first her mother didn't even understand her, her fevered pitch too much, but she slowed down and said each word with dramatic pauses. Then it was her mother's turn to yell and the two were largely incoherent as they squealed in victory. Of course, mom wanted her to come home right away, she was only a 15 minute walk, and she did agreed to come tomorrow, for the day was already closing and Nadya's mind and body were worn. Constant pliés and arabesques would do that. She hung up.

A mix of weariness and excited contentment, she un-crumpled the letter, folded it, and tucked into her bag. Everything was lighter, the weight that had sat on her shoulders ever since her father's death began to lift.

They had gotten a phone call. A simple thing that ruined her world. Her mother was not the same, and never would be. Love did that. Even worse, she had taken up smoking again, even though her lungs were irreparably damaged already. But who was Nadya to judge? How could she take away something that may have eased the pain?

The mother and daughter had sat in the tatters of death, but had numbly carried on somehow. Her mother worked, she went to school, but it was done without emotion, without life. It was if they had been hollowed out and were now just relying on the puppet master to guide them, too apathetic to break free from the strings.

Perhaps this would be the opportunity for emancipation, to restore what they had lost, to reconnect with it. Her father had told her when she was young that she was 'blessed' by the heavenly bodies with the voice of an angel, something that would be with her always. When he died, she felt as if that connection had been lost, that the blessing had turned to a curse.

It was foolhardy to stake something like a soul on this, to put all one's hopes in a single basket. But, at this point, it seemed downright logical. She was returning to the home of her father, not Russia, but so very close. Closer than she might ever be, and she would certainly be joining his spirit. Maybe her heritage would speak to her and show her the way out of this labyrinth.

Soul taking flight, she did not give heed to the warning in her mind. Something was waiting for her.


	2. Chapter 2

_In Paris_

"Again, Nadya!"

On the ground, sweat pouring off her forehead, she glared intensely at the perfectly waxed wooden floor, unwilling to accept failure.

It was her third week in the city of lights and, in her naivety, it seemed far above her head when she arrived. Historic landmarks, markers of ancient times were a shock compared to the infancy of Indianapolis.

In fact, the Louvre itself could be seen from the Paris Marias Dance School, where she unfortunately was now. Where the training was rigorous, competitive and the instructor and students alike could only be described as cutthroat. There had been no learning curve upon arrival. In the States she had relative confidence in her abilities, she had worked long enough, had devoted practically every waking moment to it, and had been commended for her natural talent.

At Butler, she had always been in the contest for lead, had won it several times, and that seemed nothing to sniff at. But the girls here were doing plenty of it. Thoroughly unimpressed and ruthless, they made no subtle attempt at weeding her out.

Toes had been stepped on, "accidents" occurred, and instructor Giry had decided to leave her to Darwinism...survival of the fittest. It wasn't that the teacher was completely unsympathetic, but she was serious to a fault. Weakness or humility was not anything to be desired. Her expression fit her philosophy. With hair tied strictly back into a suffocating bun, soured lips, and a permanent glaring expression, Nadya did not want to cross this woman in an alleyway, let alone a studio.

After the first couple days, she had wanted to go crawling back, but a new, unexpected resolve burst within her. This meant too much. If she would be disgraced, it would be on the stage, on her terms. No foppish, gaudy group of brats would get in the way.

Panting hard, the wall of mirrors mocked her, and she caught a few of the girls sniggering callously in the reflection. After her tumble, they enclosed into a circle, leaning against the golden rail, and were now giving her sneers and sideways glances. Giry stood across from them but kept her piercing eye on Nadya, arms crossed, her severe expression growing sharper as she furrowed her brow.

Eventually Nadya pushed herself up, recollecting her pride, and immediately posed determinedly in fourth position. One arm gracefully above her head, with the other across her waist, and one foot pointed perfectly in front of the other, she awaited orders.

With an impressed glimmer in her dark eye, Giry started counting off again, a slight smile on her lips as she began pacing. The other ballerinas who had been guffawing now followed suit.

It was a back-breaking routine, the most difficult Nadya had ever attempted, but it was worthwhile. If she succeeded, if only once, she would prove it to herself that she belonged here. Each day she got a little better, with each practice she stumbled less, and managed to detect and avoid sabotage, senses keen.

The clock finally struck six, and Giry dismissed them. Pleased with herself, Nadya had only fallen once. It was a new record. As the girls all swarmed to their gym bags, she remained behind still trying to get her foot positioning right. No one noticed her. If any reaction was given, it was an eye roll followed by an insult she could not understand.

When the mass of people filed out, she took one more turn about the room, one more leap and land done right, and let herself finish for the day. Her bag was always the last to be dissected and re-stuffed, sitting sadly by the door. All the other dancers had glittery ones with high-end fashion brands painted braggingly on the side. She supposed they probably replaced theirs every year.

But she had a sentimental attachment to her sweat-stained, emerald green Nike one. It had been with her all the way through high school, college, had been there when her mother was diagnosed with emphysema, when her father died. It became a precious talisman.

Of course, she was probably ridiculed for it, but she did not mind. It was a little piece of her culture she brought with her, the grungy spirit of home. Quietly walking toward it, she kneeled and began unpacking her favorite windbreaker and yoga pants and replaced them with soaked headbands, tights, and shoes.

As she turned to leave, now alone, she caught a glimpse of herself in the adjacent mirror. Her dark hair, which she got from her mother, was tied in its usual messy bun, with thick strands trying to jump out. Her skin was sun-kissed around the cheekbones after walking around, seeing the sights, but remained stubbornly the same medium olive color. Her irises she also got from her mother, a deep hazel that jumped noticeably between green and brown, never making up its mind. Her father supplied the rest, and she saw his severity: Angular chin and definite cheekbones contoured in a long face, she would have come across as very sharp if it hadn't been for her round eyes.

Unfortunately she did not retain her father's height, so she stood petite yet strong.

Her parents always called her the "hybrid", for she seemed to split their features half-and-half. In America, the melting pot, no one noticed these combinations, everyone was a bit of everything. Yet, this was not the case here.

Pale yet rosy cheeks were the archetype, along with wide faces, unassuming chins, and soft, full lips. This was especially seen in the dancing world, where each girl was attempting to become a figurine, not an athlete.

Smoking was a constant, and thin was certainly still in. At Butler, the stereotypical ballet culture still held sway, but it was without question regarded as a sport foremost. Thus, in contrast, while the others were trying to be fluttery swans, she was a pouncing cat.

In the few weeks since she started, she had not changed her style, and they did not ask it of her, but it meant that she would be set apart from the rest. Yet another difference.

Heaving a sigh, she stepped out the door and headed back to her hotel. It, too, was a short walk, taking only about twenty minutes. The Hotel Scribe, which the school had generously paid for, was magnificent. From the 19th century, it was a cornucopia of opulence and heritage. Even better, it was just across the street from the Paris Opera House!

That infamous place, she hadn't managed to squeeze in a visit yet, for it was a popular attraction. But she was determined to fit it in sometime this week. The very thought of touring it sent shivers of anticipation down her spine. The day was looking up.

Yet, as she walked humbly out onto the crowded street, there was someone waiting for her. At first, she kept her head down and didn't notice, lost in her planning.

He wouldn't be ignored, however, and soon she felt a presence directly next to her. Turning her head, she gave a slight cringe. People did not regard personal space here, but it was clear this was more than a cultural phenomenon.

A tall man, with a bold complexion, he seemed unfairly pretty. Honeyed hair with darker strands of copper, a tan face and piercing blue eyes, she hadn't the faintest idea of what to say, and he was staring right at her, their elbows an inch apart.

Mystified, she peered right back, unable to break the odd spell as they strode symmetrically.

"Uhh..." was the only thing she could utter.

Snapping the connection, he replied:

"I thought that was very brave of you."

Surprised that he was not French, but certainly from Eastern Europe, she was caught off-guard by his sporadic compliment. She reeled, trying to brainstorm exactly what she had done that could be considered remotely heroic or confident. Nothing came to mind.

Too tired to lie or figure out the riddle, she sighed:

"I think you've got the wrong girl, sir."

Puzzled for a moment, he furrowed his perfect brow, but then smiled.

"You don't remember?" he asked innocently, a chuckle escaping. "It was only a few minutes ago."

Now really stumped, she stopped her progression, annoying a couple behind her. But she paid them no mind, even when the woman gave her a slight shove.

"Look, I don't have any idea what you're talking about, but thanks I guess," she explained, crossing her arms.

The city was starting to come to life, the infamous lights flickering, signaling the emergence of a new crowd, a second dawning. The odd stranger only grinned more at her weak clarification, his whitened teeth shimmering against the twilight backdrop. Believing him to be rude, she was getting angry. So she pulled him subtly to the side, trying to avoid the glares and throng coming her way. He complied weirdly enough. Stopping, they were now profiled against a brick wall, next to the many smokers who leaned on it casually.

She pressed her lips into a hard line as she faced him.

"If Marcy put you up to this, you can tell her to go to hell," she fumed, too drawn out to play these games.

Again he acted the fool.

"Who is Marcy?" he questioned, smile faltering. "I think you misunderstand. I was only trying to pay a compliment."

"Ha-ha, I get it," she said a little harshly, this was not the first time she had been the butt of a joke. "But I didn't do anything."

She started to turn away, her peaceful night beginning to sour. Unbelievably, he stopped her, grabbing her arm, she whisked back and gave him a baffled brow.

 _Was this guy serious?_

"Please, just listen," he offered, and she relented, trying to get this conversation over with.

"Yeah, ok," she replied, turning her head away and crossing her arms.

Pleased that he had succeeded in diplomacy, he took a moment to formulate his words, converting whatever his native tongue was into English.

"I don't mean to sound..." he paused, mulling. "...like a creep? Is that how you Americans say it?"

She nodded, getting a little satisfaction from his struggle.

Again, happy with his apt translation, he flashed a smirk. She rolled her eyes.

"It was very strong of you, not letting the princesses," at this he jerked his head backward, and she understood he meant the other dancers. "Embarrass you. You are very...determined, and that is an admirable quality."

Her jaw dropped a little. There was nothing venomous or of a jeering nature in his eyes, which was even more of a shock. She almost expected the other ballerinas to come jumping out of a bush, laughing hysterically at her.

Nothing happened. She blinked a few times and gave him a tiny smile back, signaling a white flag.

"Oh," she admitted, softening her gaze. "Thanks. You're the first person to actually say something nice to me here. So, sorry about being so harsh."

He put a hand, a long graceful one, up courteously.

"It is no trouble," he said, a gleam of mischief in his cerulean eyes. "Pretty girls should never trust the French."

Despite herself, she laughed, feeling a knot loosen in her chest as she did. It had been a while since she allowed herself the pleasure. He imitated her, chuckling cutely, his dormant dimples peeking out.

Then, he bowed, and she wondered if she wasn't just making the whole exchange up. He took her hand in his and held it to his face. She gulped.

"Pardon my rudeness," he said. "For I have not told you my name. I am Rurik Chernov."

So stunned, she barely noticed when he let it go, and it flopped back to her side.

"Chernov?" she squeaked. "The critic?"

"So you know of me?" he wondered, mouth pulling down.

"Well, yeah!" she gushed. "Me and mom would read your columns all the time! The way you write...it's like I'm there with you. It's really beautiful."

Apparently he had expected a diatribe, for an acute sense of relief flashed on his face.

"You and your mother would be the only ones who would think so," he responded sheepishly, rubbing his neck. "I am not very popular around here."

Unsure of what to say, he thankfully made it easy.

"Well, enough of that talk," he chirped, flashing his pearly whites again. "May I escort you to wherever it is you were going?"

Tickled by his charm, she nodded warmly. A flurry of feelings mingled in her chest, and she didn't know how to separate them out. But, for the moment, she was happy to have a friend in a strange land.


	3. Chapter 3

As the weeks passed, the Opera House started to dim from her thoughts. It was replaced by Rurik. Devilishly charming with an innocent wit, it was hard not falling head over heels for him. Instead of dancing, instead of her father, she thought of him often. After each lesson, she would hurry just like all the other girls, pushing her way to the front.

As always he would be standing outside, waiting for her. He hadn't been lying about being unpopular, the ballerinas hated him almost as much as they despised Nadya. One particular soloist was still burned from a nasty review he wrote, and she organized the others into a solid front.

They had rudely ignored the American before, but now there was no mercy. Instead of stepped-on toes, it was blatant tripping. She tried her best to be vigilant, to put on blinders, but when she did, they outright attacked.

"Little whore," they would jeer in broken English.

It got to the point when Giry had to step in. Banishing girls left and right, Nadya felt like a parasite. The studio was split, with one large bloc adamantly opposed to her relationship, and a much smaller section who were too apathetic to care. It still didn't make sense, their hatred.

Rurik was an honest critic, did he really deserve this? As she mulled it over, she wondered if it was something more.

A childish part of her asserted that they were just jealous. He was undoubtedly handsome, a prize, and she was seen as the opposite: A silly, backwater hick who masqueraded as a dancer.

The more suspicious, realistic side of her believed it was more than just petty envy or revenge. It was specific kind of animosity, one that signaled a deep emotional trauma: a broken heart.

She was building the courage to ask him right out, for he didn't know the drama of the studio, she purposefully left him out of it and he never asked.

But looking into his eyes, laughing carefree with him, was golden. How long had it been since she had had a friend? Did it matter if his past was muddled? Sure her time may be even more stressful, but it wasn't like it was a huge change from earlier. It only meant any hope of befriending a peer was down the _toilette_.

Yet, the days grew exponentially longer. It was pulling teeth keeping up a cool facade when rabid dogs were biting her heels constantly. On one particular morning, it had started terribly.

Determined to make her a fool, a lanky, crooked nosed ballerina outright pushed her out of a one-foot stance. Nadya fell, hard, a pained gasp echoing in the silence. Without even wasting a breath, Giry expelled the assailant, and then offered a hand.

Nadya took it, but as she came to her feet, an unexpected twinge stung her ankle. She limped to the rail and tried to have a decent look at it. It didn't seem too swollen, but she wasn't sure if she could continue practicing.

Giry came to the same conclusion and snatched a bag of ice, thrust it into her Nike gym bag, and ordered the injured girl to take the rest of the day off. This was a shock to the others, who had never seen Giry take a sick day or accept one.

Thankful, Nadya did not look back twice as she hobbled out.

Instead of walking, she had to take a cab. Her French was coming along relatively well and she managed to explain to the mustached driver where she wanted to go. In five minutes, she was in front of the grand hotel.

Her ankle was insistent on aching, so she was relieved when she stumbled back into her room. It had a brilliant view of the city, especially breathtaking at night. It was a mix of modern chic and 19th century gaudiness with white as a dominant color. Golden trimming was also the norm, but the shower was hilariously out of place with its sharp, futuristic features.

Instead of using it, she made a way for the small bath that sat unassumingly next to it. Downing a pair of pills and filling the tub high with steamy, soapy water, she plopped in. After only a few minutes, it was doing wonders for her nerves and bones.

Time passed lazily and she could feel a pruning coming on, so she finally pulled herself out of the water, her ankle ridiculously better. Satisfied, she changed into a comfortable pair of loose jeans and her favorite leather jacket. Whisking her wet hair into a familiar bun, she wondered what she would do for the rest of the day.

Although it seemed forever since she had been at the dance school, it was only just after noon. Then, a glimmer of something flickered in her peripheral. Curious, she wondered where it came from so she waddled over to the window, scanning.

It took only a second until the source and inspiration hit her like a train: The Opera House!

Its golden statue stood superbly above the rest of the buildings, beckoning to her as it shimmered in the bright sun.

Taking no more time to consider, she threw on a pair of sneakers, snatched her purse and left.

* * *

It was far better than her expectations. A timeless yet glorious place, every crevice of it was covered in something interesting and artistic. Twisting, writhing statues guarded the staircases while mosaics colored the high ceilings. The actual theater was massive, bigger than she thought it would be by far. Its scarlet velvet cradled the booths, and drew all attention to the sleek stage, the heavy curtain drawn, adding to the mystery.

If only her parents could be here! she wished.

She was sure her father would teach her new phrases and provide background while her mother would regal her with tales of the performers who had graced the stage.

Each aspect of the place made her chest swell with pride, a deep-seated joy broke free from her heavy heart. Here was her father! She had found him again!

Unfortunately, tourists were everywhere, but she remained somehow untouched by them, trying to absorb everything happening around her. After a few hours, she still hadn't sated her thirst to memorize every inch. There were dark hallways that no one was even exploring. It had the aura of being off-limits, but the guards were so busy tracking down sticky-hand toddlers and pointing directions, they didn't notice as she gallivanted down one of the ominous corridors.

Portraits of famous patrons, singers, and dancers lined the passage, their frames practically weaving together. It was creepily, yet invigoratingly dark, and she used it to flit from pane to pane without being seen, analyzing every face, noting each one's significance.

As the passageway grew narrower, it turned sharply to the right. Without thinking, without looking back, she giggled quietly as she hopped around the corner, spirit light as a feather. Yet, this section was different from the others.

It seemed as if the artist had abruptly stopped here. Only a few decorations highlighted the walls, and they were not as light-hearted. There was a story painted on the right-hand side, and it was obviously depicting a tragedy. Inspecting it closely, for it was hard to see in the gloom, she recognized a familiar scene.

It was recounting the myth of Persephone and Hades, the infamous tale of when the god kidnapped the daughter of the harvest. It had been the civilization's explanation of the seasons.

Nadya traced it from the beginning, where the daughter of Demeter sat innocently playing with flowers, reveling in springtime. Lurking in the shadows of the surrounding forest was the king of Hell, his bright eyes lustful as he watched her secretly.

Then, it became chaotic, Persephone was being dragged away ruthlessly by Hades. Flowers gone from her fingers, she was ripping grass trying to hold onto freedom. From the clouds above, Demeter looked on sadly, unable to save her daughter.

Progressing softly, she saw the goddess trapped in the rocky bowels of Erebus, crumpled and crying as Hades held out his hand to her. In his palm were pomegranate seeds, and in her distress, Persephone ate them, sealing her fate as queen of the underworld.

Grieved, Demeter caused a remorseless winter and withered fields. The gods were concerned, so a deal was struck, allowing her daughter to come up for four months at a time, saving the crops.

The final pane was a somber Persephone, with one hand reaching toward the bright sky littered with doves and clouds, and the other being held onto by Hades, who anchored her selfishly, the souls of the dead thronging around him.

Seeing the poor woman's face sent a foreshadowing chill down her spine. The radiance it once had was gone, replaced by solemnity. It was the face of someone who had reached a devastating epiphany: Even Olympus couldn't stop fate.

As her fingers brushed against the faded wall, the corridor came to a halt, and another undiscovered area awaited. Hesitant to leave the poignant scene, she made a promise to return to it, knowing it would be a favorite of hers.

The message of the myth hung with her, however, and her step was not as sprightly as it had been. Seeing Hades stare, the way he remained unseen, how he sprung out of hiding and stole Persephone made Nadya look over her shoulder.

The hallway she now walked had a variety of doors, and she guessed that they were dressing rooms. Shaking off a foreboding sense, she made sure no one was following her before she picked one at random. Deadly quiet, she could no longer hear the people, and the end of the hall was masked in obscure shadow. Barely breathing, she turned the dusty knob and pushed.

It opened with a creak and she sucked in a breath, praying no one heard it. After waiting for a reaction and receiving none, she exhaled in relief and pressed into the room.

As soon as she entered, she quickly shut the door behind her, gently nudging it back so as not to make a peep. Back against it, she surveyed the space with wonder. It was relatively small and probably filled with cobwebs, but she could completely imagine some famous performer resting here after a brilliant show.

Two mirrors faced one another. The one on the right was small, with a desk and quaint chair in front of it, fairly typical. The other took up the entire left wall, and it was this one that intrigued her the most. Framed with an intricate, metallic lace, it was in pristine condition. A lovely, burgundy cloth shrouded the top of it, resembling an opening stage curtain. It even had a golden rope wavering beside it.

Cocking her head to a side, she wandered over, trying to get a better look.

Her reflection was crystal clear. It was almost surreal that such a perfect object laid in the murky dust, completely untouched by the years. It wasn't possible.

That's when it hit her. For some reason, someone was caring for it. The image of Hades flashed in her mind, but she shook her head.

 _It was just a story._

Unwilling to let her rising unease ruin her good fun, she searched for a light. Did they have switches back then?

When none presented itself, she sighed a pulled out a lighter. In her first few days she tried to make friends by keeping one with her at all times. But the scheme didn't work, and it now sat unused in her purse.

Triggering it on, the room became slightly less unsettling. Thankfully, she spotted a pair of dirty candles on the desk. Tenderly holding the little flame to it, one of them actually lit up. She repeated the process with its brother.

 _Now we're cooking,_ she thought proudly, appraising her success.

It was so much prettier illuminated. She hadn't noticed the soft, pastel colors of the faded wallpaper, or the rusting gold of the mini-chandelier above her head. For some reason it reminded her of home, of singing with her dad in the dead of night, of a safe den to be herself.

A feeling she thought had died began to revive within. Surely, no one would hear her if she just sang a couple verses? The magic of the day was certainly doing wonders, this place seemed the closest thing to her father than anything had been in two years.

Closing her eyes, leaning against the table, she felt the warm flickering of the candles, could see her father's smiling face in her mind. Inhibitions floating away, she started by humming. The acoustics of the room were better than she thought, the sound echoed lovingly back.

It gave her a mounting courage, and she strained to remember the melodies. One came to her, and it seemed fitting. It was a song about a woman's heartfelt farewell to her only love. A smile playing on her lips, she gave a cough to clear her throat. Even though she hadn't even dreamt of singing again, her voice had not abandoned her, it rose to a poignant tenor, picking up where she left off.

Taking it as a sign, she put more buoyancy into it, freeing her abdomen as she relaxed. The resonance of the notes filled the room, engulfing her. Tears began to well, for all she could think of was her father and his love. In some ways, she changed the meaning of the lyrics. It wasn't a plea but a prayer, one she hoped would be heard wherever he was.

" _Think of me, think of me fondly, when we say goodbye."_

" _Remember me, once in a while, please promise me you'll try."_

Then, the final verses left her lips, and the glow of them faded into silence. Burdened with his vanishing memory, she skidded to the floor and held her head in her arms, trying to hold onto the moment.

Yet, as all the other times, he slipped away. Now desperate to keep his spirit alive, she raised her somber head, tear drops beginning to spill down her face. She repeated the song.

She sang until she her throat could take no more, until the sobs overtook the tune, and she broke down. It was the first time that acceptance peeked its head out. Anger had been with her for so long it seemed, but now the hurt was scarring, beginning to heal as she cried.

In her state, she did not feel his eyes, did not sense that her performance had attracted someone to her. From a place unseen, his inquisitive stare saw a weeping girl, the one who had been the source of the sound, a beautiful sound, like a siren call. Beholding her, investigation was becoming intrigue.

Was Fate beginning to spin his wheel?


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :D They are an inspiration and a comfort!**

Soul cleansed, Nadya left the Opera House in the early hours of the morning, managing to evade the notice of the guards. With little to no sleep, she nonetheless dragged herself to practice. Blessedly, Giry was extremely strict that day, letting no one come within an inch of Nadya as she drilled them mercilessly.

By the end of the session, she was just about ready to collapse when Giry approached her.

"You did well today," she said gruffly with her usual flagrant accent. "But you look exhausted. How is the injury?"

As if to underscore that fact, Nadya let out a yawn, unable to stop herself. Shaking her head awake, she made it her sole purpose to keep eye contact.

"It's fine," she replied wearily, her voice scratched.

Brow raised in confusion, Giry leaned in and studied her more closely. Too tired to be self-conscious, she stared doggedly back.

"Tell me," the severe instructor pondered. "What did you do last night? How can you be so tired after an entire day of rest?"

If she hadn't been on the verge of disintegrating, the warning in her head would have made her bite her tongue, but there was also something trustworthy about the older dancer. She seemed to have seen it all. What was one little trespass?

"Oh, I just went to the Opera House," she began, and Giry narrowed her eyes.

"Go on," she commanded cleverly, knowing that wasn't the whole story.

Nadya gulped, but nonetheless obeyed. With a sigh, she said:

"Well, I might have stayed there over night," at this she gave an innocent smile. "But no one saw me! I was just wandering around and I found an old dressing room..."

"Wait!" Giry cut off, now extremely alarmed. "A dressing room you say? Where?"

Surprised by her intensity, Nadya wondered if the instructor had seen it too, but she dared not ask her.

"I-it was in this abandoned part of the opera house," she stuttered. "I don't know exactly where, but it was down a few spooky corridors."

A deep anger began to boil in Giry's eyes as she explained, replaced by a pale fear. It was the strangest thing Nadya had ever seen. What was the big deal? Blinking, wheels turning in her mind, the ballet instructor regained her usual composure after a moment, but her voice was weak.

"Were there two mirrors in this room?"

So she had been there before! Foolishly, this relieved her a bit, maybe Giry had a bad experience there or perhaps the American was mistaking panic for enthusiasm, she wasn't sure.

"Yeah!" she exclaimed. "One big one and one small. How'd you know?"

But the woman wasn't looking at her anymore, her eyes had become glazed over, lost in thought. Nadya wasn't sure what to do, so she patiently waited for some kind of dismissal and looked down at her feet. It was after enough awkward seconds that the brooding teacher finally acknowledged her presence, a thousand questions burning in her eyes.

"Is there anything else?" Nadya asked, perplexed.

Not seeming like she even heard her, Giry remained intently focused.

"One more thing," she replied in a faint whisper.

Leaning in to hear her, the girl nodded for her to continue.

"Do not go back there."

Taken aback by this instruction, Nadya knew instantly could not make that promise, but it seemed Giry was intent on it having it. She skewered her with a glare that made her knees shake. But on this, she would not budge. She did not know this woman, why could she order her to keep away from something that had finally made her grief retreat? It wasn't fair.

"I'm sorry, but no, Madame Giry," she said resolutely. "Not without a better reason."

It felt like an easy request, but it apparently did not come off that way.

"Foolish girl!"

The instructor whisked away, practically stomping into her office. It was an odd sight, the woman was usually as stoic as a statue. The other girls noticed it too and immediately looked at Nadya, a mix of revulsion and wonder in their eyes.

Thoroughly frustrated, her cheeks blushed as she ran out the glass door, trying to ignore the stares drilling into her back.

In her haste, she ran smack dab into Rurik.

"Oh, sorry!" she apologized as she cringed backward.

As always, he was too much of a gentleman, and shook off her fluster with a smile that could melt a gargoyle's heart.

"It is nothing," he assured, placing his steadying hands on her shoulders as he looked sweetly down.

His touch calmed her instantly, and her brain became molasses. She almost forgot what she had been so angry about. Sighing away her troubles, he took one of her hands and held it in front of him, as if clutching a talisman.

"What happened?" he pondered, eyes going wide.

How could anyone resist that face?

Feeling the warmth of his palm on her fingers, she took strength from him. Peering backward, making sure no unfriendly ears were listening, she told him of her exchange with Giry.

"So that is why you did not come out yesterday," he said, and she felt a twinge of guilt for not calling.

"Oh man," she groaned. "I feel terrible! I hope you didn't wait too long! I just got so caught up in exploring and—"

"Little Nady," he cut in, and she smirked at her new nickname. "You must stop apologizing. I am happy that you saw another part of the city! That is why you're here, no?"

It was moments like these when she couldn't imagine not having him around. Their friendship was growing fast, and she hoped that it would eventually bloom into something more. He was everything she had ever wanted in a man: Understanding, respectful, and who understood what it was like looking in from the outside. As a critic, he was to be segregated from performers, who either wanted his presence or his head. So he had to have understood the divide, the isolation that she also felt.

Not even noticing the masses, they stared deeply into one another's eyes. Then, in unison they turned, still holding hands and strolled casually down the sidewalks under the guise of the magical city.

As they walked, she pondered why she hadn't tried anything, hadn't embarrassed herself flirting yet.

Although he seemed to be a potential other half, she couldn't help but hold back just enough to keep her from the plunge. She wasn't sure if there was something she did not know about him, or something she did not know about herself. There was an odd but subtle force that was beginning to make itself known as the weeks passed. It was this presence that had drawn her down the dark passageways of the Opera House, the same one which Giry feared, she was sure.

As only Paris could conjure, there was a mystification that eluded Nadya here, holding its cards tightly.

Perhaps this was why she refused make a promise to Giry or give Rurik a call.

Perhaps this was why she opened that dressing room door.

Perhaps this was why she was going back…tonight.

* * *

The day was fading. She had said farewell to Rurik, the candle-like heat of his company still flickering on her skin. Knowing she had to move fast, she waited the proper amount of time for him to call a cab and sprinted out the door.

Running over the opening and closing hours in her head, she was sure she would be able to squeak in just before they stopped accepting visitors. Getting there in record time, she barely noticed the massive structure as it loomed over her, casting a deep shadow. Pictures did not do it justice. It seemed as if the sky could not hold it.

The velvet ropes were coming out, and she was the last wave to be admitted. Each guard looked dead on his feet, the day beginning to wear them.

This made it extremely easy to bypass their tired security. Just as before, she waited for one inevitable crisis to appear. There was a promising group of rowdy teenagers that was lurking around, unable to keep their hands from touching the art.

A boy with ragged blonde hair and an unsettling grin finally went too far. The staircase was off-limits, only official tour groups could enter, but he paid no heed and darted up them, taunting his friends as he did. Then, the chase was on. The navy-blue guards squeaked their whistles and sprinted after him, yelling rebukes.

When the attention of the entire lobby was focused on the stupid kid, she skulked unnoticed into the dusky hall. A new sense of urgency pushed her to skip over the portraits and go straight to the adjacent passageway, the one with Persephone's story.

Turning a corner quickly, she leaned against the wall, panting. Adrenaline was coursing through her veins, she felt like she had just stolen the Hope Diamond. No footsteps followed her, but she heard a cry echoing faintly. The boy had probably just been tackled.

She took deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling with purpose, trying to slow her hummingbird heart. The ominous sense that accompanied her the first time was now palpable. This time was markedly different. The wonder and awe of the first discovery was thinning into a dark premonition.

She took one more second to steady herself and then paid lip service to Persephone as she continued to trot quickly. Again she came around to the doors and had no problem finding the mirrored dressing room. Looking over her shoulder every few paces, she could feel something watching her. She supposed it to be a guard, or one of the teenagers who might have seen her escape.

Yet there was no sound, no admonition.

Why was she so on edge? Hadn't she come here seeking the opposite?

To calm her, she forced an image of her father smiling to the forefront of her thoughts, ignoring the enveloping murk.

Swatting away the shadows of her mind, she repressed the sinister feelings and twisted the handle open. Remembering its squeaky hinges, she managed to open it without that gut-wrenching sound and tip-toed quickly in.

No monster awaited her, no Hades. It was just the same with the mirrors that squared off as if in a perpetual duel.

Like last time, she unfurled her lighter and set the waxy candles ablaze, bringing life to the ancient room. It begin to feel like hallowed ground, like she only had to exclaim "Sanctuary!" to gain access to its protection. Except in her case, it was not a word but a song.

Curious once more, she went over to the looming mirror, and looked deeply into it, trying to see past it. For it did not feel like a reflection but a portal, one that might whisk her back to the past, before her world became a never-ending night.

But it only stood vacantly, only her furrowed expression greeted her search. Shaking her head, she sat in front of it like a child, folding her flexible legs into a crossed-legged position. The shimmer of the dim candlelight encouraged her to recollect, to find a purpose to sing.

She let her mind wander until it hit a nerve: The memory of her father's funeral. Saddened by it greatly, it nonetheless had to be the inspiration. Prayers and pleas could not satisfy her soul today, it must be a eulogy.

Thus, a new melody was needed.

Throat becoming thick, she had a distinct reminiscence of one of the last songs her father taught her. It had been sophomore year in high school, and something had happened at school that caused her to cry. Always there to care for her, he took her into the car and drove to their special grove early that day. When they arrived, she began to feel better as he recited the verses to her.

She recalled being surprised, because it was not a joyful tune, but a tragic one. After she had stopped weeping, she asked her father why he chose it, and he replied:

"Because, angel, putting a happy face on pain means that we never accept our sadness," he explained with his usual crinkly expression. "If we do not recognize it, we cannot move on."

She knew his words were true, but they would be put to the ultimate test with his death, and she would end up ignoring them.

But, perhaps now she was strong enough to listen.

Lowering her head, she let the tidal waves of pent-up grief storm over her. Afraid she would not be able to expel it, she wondered if her voice would come back. Channeling her sorrow, her body and heart obeyed, opening up the dam.

" _You were once my one companion, you were all that mattered..._

 _Wishing you were somehow here again, wishing you were somewhere near..._

 _Too many years, fighting back tears. Why can't the past just die?_

 _Help me say goodbye._

 _Help me say goodbye."_

It was far more agonizing than her last, but it was also far more exceptional. Each tinkling _vibrato_ , each piercing tenor and fading note rebounded all around until she encompassed in her own voice, completely cocooned. Believing it would only add to the mourning, it actually lessened it. Her father had been right, as he always had been.

When it dimmed into a profound silence, she let his memory go peacefully this time. Although the sting remained, the wound was stitching. The tatters were repairing.

Again, an enthralling resonance drew him from his den.

It boiled his blood and muddied his brain. It was irresistible, the swan song of redemption taunting him. He couldn't control himself, couldn't think, compose, play, it was impossible! Resistance was like drowning, her voice was like air.

He lurked and studied as she came back like a restless ghost. Something drew her here, and he had to figure out why. A perfect enigma, a challenge for his time, he felt as if he had been lured and caught. Her first performance sealed his fate, it was all he could think about.

Who was she? Where did she come from? Why on earth did she come to _this_ room? Of all places? Even worse, she was everything he could never be: Beautiful and innocent. He couldn't decide whether to be furious or overjoyed. His own guardian angel finally showed her head and it exacerbated his long deadened hopes of salvation.

The second time was pure torture, she had improved, if that were possible. His entire body quaked with anticipation. He must make himself known, must reach for the unattainable. She sat, head bowed as if in a prayer, shoulders slumped, her long hair, free from its usual restraint, curtained down, hiding her face from him as he looked in from behind the mirror.

Without her realizing, he shifted silently as he made up his mind. This may be his only chance, when would she ever come back? Staying quiet was decaying him from the inside, and leaving would only leave him to his self-loathing.

She waited, unaware.

He took a noiseless breath.

 _Here goes nothing..._ he thought morbidly.

 _"Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance."_


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Let me know what you think so far~**

At first, she hardly realized what had happened.

She had been sitting alone (or so she thought), trying desperately not to cry, for she didn't know if she had enough tears left to spend. Then, there was a tremor in the air, a tickling that sat at the edge of her ear.

Perplexed, but not afraid, she wondered if it was a tourist roaming outside.

But, as the words came to her, she gasped and jumped back into the desk, wobbling the candles. If she hadn't had the foresight to catch them, it certainly could have caused a fire. Turning slowly back around, she couldn't believe it.

Here she had been, wistfully asking for her father's renewed presence, and then...

No words could describe it.

Never had anyone sung with her, no one even knew she could do such a thing! Yet, another voice trespassed, and she couldn't say a negative thing about it.

So lovely, intricately woven yet purposefully simple, it was everything and nothing. It hit the deepest lows and pierced the mountainous highs. Who could own such a voice? It was downright angelic, definitely otherworldly in its skill.

Her body's instinct was to fly, there was someone here! Danger! But her enviously curious mind anchored her, halting all attempts to run. Looking at the door, she had no idea where it came from. Was there someone on the other side?

Unable to resist, she ventured over. Pulling the knob and peering sheepishly out, she attempted to spot an apparition.

No one. The gloomy hall was as empty as the graveyard shift.

But it had been real! It was here, she was sure of it!

A tenuous quiet reigned, perhaps she had made it up in her mind. Scoffing, there was no way she could create such an original score out of thin air. It was only a verse, a single thing that alighted her passion. A sweet sound, addicting in its nature, her soul screamed for more against her better judgments.

It did not reveal itself, she wasn't sure how to provoke it.

She whispered:

"Hello? Who's there?"

Nothing but the buzz of burning candles and cascading dust.

A mix of disappointment and terror, she pondered how to get the being to unmask itself. With a mounting embarrassment, she realized it probably wanted her to sing back.

But she had never done such a thing in front of a _stranger_! The whole reason for finding such a secluded space was to circumvent any and all who might be listening. Yet it seemed someone, or something, had found her, and it was no trivial person.

Another secrecy, another puzzle to solve, she shut her eyes firmly, squeezing her face so she could pretend she was still alone. Hands clenched, she positioned her body as one who prepares for battle and forced herself to sit.

A cloud of dust puffed around her, she held her breath and waited for the right wave of feeling to come to her.

Brain jumbled she sorted her thoughts, trying to find a composition that would fit this situation, but there was none. So she went with the direct, and loosened her muscles, numbed her tightly wound nerves.

" _Angel or father, friend or phantom. Who is it there staring?"_

He had not expected this.

She had leapt away, this had been bound to happen. He kicked himself, for he knew he came on too strong and had hung his head in defeat, hoping she wouldn't report him to the police. Images of being dragged from his hideout had filled his mind.

But, when he looked back up, she was still there, turning away from the door. A torrent of astonishment, his heart had beat wildly in his chest. He watched as she practically turned herself to stone, scrunching into a box, closed her bright, hazel eyes, and then plopped solidly onto the ground.

Eagerly, he waited for her next move. Would she scream? Would she throw a candle at the mirror? A thousand situations, each more cynical than the last, blanketed his expectations. Yet again, she dumbfounded him.

She had sung back! Was she actually trying to commune with _him_? The monster in the shadows? The nameless fear in the night?

Then, her fluttering lids blinked up, and she peered curiously around, awaiting his response.

Nothing had happened, and her disillusionment began to warp her speculations.

 _Maybe I did really make it up..._

She stood to leave.

" _Too long you've wandered in winter."_

Spine going rigid, she spun around, her mouth in a 'o.' Looking around, head on a swivel, she tried to find the face to match the voice, but in obscurity he still hid.

" _Far from my fathering gaze."_

It was too much, too beautiful. The edges of her vision went black, she stumbled and fell once more to the floor, palms covered in powder. Being grounded seemed to help, she felt the wood beneath her fingertips, the grains of dust, and opened her senses, let her lids droop.

Then, she recalled what her father had said to her. He had told her that she had been "blessed by angels."

Everything began to click. Was this an angel? Father's angel? Come at last?

Spirit burning, mind pounding, eyes widening, she gave a brilliant smile, one of pure joy. The light of dawn had broken.

With renewed voracity, her lungs unfastened, and she replied:

" _Angel, I hear you. Speak. I listen. Stay by my side, guide me."_

What had she called him? _Angel?_ If he hadn't been so bewitched by her voice, her face, he would have laughed bitterly. If only she knew...

They were both setting things in motion that were not meant to be, not meant to spin. It was if the earth had decided to turn the other way, as if the clocks went backwards. But in this tiny room of history and secrets, it did not matter.

The two of them continued to weave a duet together. She sought his direction, his advice, and he sought her friendship, her puzzling affection. With each note, they grew more intertwined to one another. If there had been an unexpected guest at the door, he or she would have cried at the inescapable splendor, the choir of the Seraphim just beyond their sight.

Her innocent tenor and his depth of dexterity painted a masterpiece. There had not been many concrete words, but they tested one another's range, trying to balance or best each other. Sometimes she would hit the note just right, and then he would complicate the composition, egging her on. It was both a contest and a compliment.

Even without knowing him, she discerned that he had spent a lifetime, or maybe a thousand, mastering his craft. Sometimes, she had to pause, just so she could enjoy the magnificence of it. Yet, she wouldn't stay out for long, the temptation to join in too strong.

No thought was given to fear. When they sang, she felt untouchable.

By the end of the lesson, when each could no longer continue, she sat happily back on the vanity desk. He was sprawled against the dank cavern wall. Both were breathing heavily, reflecting poignantly on the odd turn of events.

She had sung with the heavens, unaware that he sat far closer. A stab of guilt hit him in the stomach. It was wrong of him to play with her vulnerabilities, for it was quite transparent that she was in mourning. Then again, when had anyone paid his feelings any consideration? Plus, it was better for her not to know. Not yet, anyway.

He would have to be careful, cautious about his eventual reveal. It was luck that she hadn't dashed away yet, wailing like a banshee to the authorities.

The silence became remorsefully dull without the grandeur of the pair.

Not at any moment had they not been singing. How would they part?

Instinctively, she felt the sun rising. Practice would be soon. It appeared to be another long day ahead of her. It would be doubly tedious for him.

Sighing, she rested her head against the smaller mirror's frame, looking back at herself in the other, larger reflection in front of her. For a moment, their eyes met, and he stiffened. It was clear she could not see him, but it still made his hair stand on edge.

"Goodbye, my angel," she said sadly after a pause. "I'll be back."

Tracing her movements, she did not await his answer as she wrenched the door open and escaped.

"And I will be waiting," he replied when she was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

It was worse than she thought. The sun had not been rising, it had already risen. It was directly above her head as she stumbled out, blinded by the light. Frantic and impractical, for there was no way Giry would allow her to join after being so ridiculously late, she nonetheless made a way for the studio.

Luckily, she was still in her post-workout clothes, though ragged and covered in dust. It wouldn't be too hard to fling on the leotard and toe-killing shoes on the way. Sprinting behind a corner, she paid no mind to the man emptying his trash down the alleyway.

She stripped hurriedly, pulling her loose hair back into its familiar bun. The clothes from her bag reeked, but she was a bloodsucker to the other ballerinas anyway, why not add 'smelly' to the long list of insults. It was the far least of her worries. Things like this could get her scholarship revoked.

The pedestrians cocked foppish eyebrows as she ran recklessly. With dark shadows masking her bright eyes and sweat-stains marring every inch of her, they assumed she was demented. Only a few blocks away, she could see the white building ahead as her feet pounded the cement. The familiar windows and columns came into view.

Skidding to a halt in front of it, lungs in a deadlock, she grasped the elegant, silver handle and pulled with all her might.

It did not budge.

Confused, she tried again and again.

She took a step back, contemplating throwing a trash bin through the glass, when she saw the simple piece of white paper fluttering casually on the door. It read (in several languages):

"Closed for the day. Pipe burst."

In disbelief, she read it several times and then finally turned around stoically and began walking away. Now she had witnessed two instances of divine intervention.

Not even giving a thought to Rurik (again), she lumbered. The adrenaline spike crashed down, and she didn't know if she could make it to the hotel. Ignoring the stares of the bag boys and managers, she clunked her way to the Scribe, mind shutting down. Tunnel vision, her dragging feet led her back to the room blessedly, where she threw her bag down and collapsed on the bed, instantly falling asleep.

A clear, incessant rapping rattled her out of dreams. Coming out of an unladylike snore, she growled and squinted. She was still lying horizontally, her feet hanging off the bed.

Another knock sounded, this time with the added:

"Nadya?"

Realizing that Rurik was standing outside, she rolled to a standing position and waddled toward the door. Not even caring that she was a disheveled mess, she yanked it open.

At first, his eyebrows rose in surprise. She looked as if she had been dragged through the streets. He stood, probably a foot taller than her, looking down with an odd expression, one she was too exhausted to dissect.

"Hey Rurik," she mumbled, giving a yawn. "What's up?"

After another moment of staring, he gave an uncomfortable cough.

"Ah," he began, and it was probably the first time he seemed human to her. "Are you well?"

She nodded vacantly, longing for the lush bed that was beckoning to her. She motioned for him to come in as she headed back to it, not done.

"Sorry," she said sleepily. "I just needed a nap. Had a long night."

Like an unsure puppy, he tailed her. Sighing contently as she curled once more upon the mattress, she only made a vain attempt to keep up conversation. He sat with her at the foot of the bed, clear worry in his eyes.

"Nady," he said after asking the required, proper questions of health and weather. "How long were you asleep?"

She hadn't given it much thought, and she certainly wasn't giving it much now.

"I dunno," she grumbled into the pillow, lids half closed. "What time is it?"

"9 p.m."

She took in this information superficially, not really absorbing it.

"Then, I guess it's been..." she calculated slowly."10 hours?"

She said this with such a cavalier attitude—he didn't know what else to say. She seemed intent on sleeping more, and so he wondered if he should leave her to it when her eyes snapped open.

"9 p.m.?!"

A little frightened, he nodded.

"Crap!" she groaned, slamming her face down into the cushion.

"What's the matter?" he asked, hand reaching out. "Are you hurt?"

Moaning into the soft, cushy pillow, she took a minute to accept the reality that she would not be able to make it to the Opera House tonight, it was certainly closed. Realizing how she must look, she sighed and turned her head.

His hand was still awkwardly hanging in the air.

She bit her lip, hoping her lying skills were up to par.

"No, no, I'm fine," she replied in a much calmer tone. "I just forgot to run an errand, that's all."

Buying it, she felt relieved when he retracted his hand, although his expression was still cautious.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he wondered again.

To prove it, she shifted to a seated position, and started straightening out her clothes, adjusted her bed-head.

She couldn't believe she hadn't realized it had been night for hours. The fake illumination of the outside city had kept away some of the dark, but it still shaded the eggshell walls, threw everything into a slanted relief.

Squirming shadows rose and fell on the lush, champagne carpet and covered half of the large, queen-sized bed. Surprisingly, the lamp on the nightstand was on next to her, which split the bright white comforter in two. In fact, the entire room seemed two-faced, with the side closest to the open windows in a permeating gloom and the other half still brightened fairly well.

For a moment her thoughts went to the small, mirrored room. That, too, had a dualism of night and day to it. Well, when the candles were on at least.

Rurik gave a polite throat-clearing, which whisked her out of her strange recollections.

"Yup, good as new," she finally replied and then she smiled apologetically at him. "It's just been a really long day."

He hummed empathetically, and scooted closer to her. A part of her wanted to recoil ever so slightly, but she shot the feeling down. She must really be on edge…

So, she told him about her crazy morning, changing the subject.

"A pipe?" he asked. "How odd."

"I know right?" she nodded and wrapped her arms around her knees. "Must have been pretty bad for Giry to cancel."

"Yes," he agreed, perceptive. "She is very strict. But she also seems to be hiding something."

"What do you mean?" Nadya asked, confused.

He grinned reassuringly.

"Not anything dangerous," he comforted, seeing her anxiety. "Just from what you told me yesterday about her reaction to the _Palais Garnier_."

She had almost forgotten. It seemed dream-like in comparison with what happened later that day.

"Oh, yeah," she said, chewing her cheek. "That was weird. I've never seen her so angry."

"And you say it was because of a room?"

Trying to keep her face calm, she nodded stonily. Rurik could _not_ find out about the voice. He would wrap her up and send her to the loony bin for sure. So she merely said:

"Uh-huh."

"I wonder what she saw," he continued, lifting an elegant hand to his chin, completely unabated by her lack of response.

Nadya shrugged, looking intently at her wrists as she did. It was clear she didn't want to talk anymore about it, and he presumed that her weariness had finally gotten the best of her.

"Well, I suppose I'll leave you to get some _more_ rest," he announced, an impish grin intact.

She felt terrible for keeping a secret from him, but every part of her screamed that no one could ever know about the voice singing songs in her head.

Lifting her gaze to him, she gave a little smirk and a nod as he stood.

"Thanks," she squeaked. "See you tomorrow?"

In response he tenderly walked toward her, leaned over, and planted a soft kiss on her brow, his fingers gently holding the sides of her face.

"Of course, little Nady," he whispered, his breath caressing.

Hardly breathing, she only stared wide-eyed as he turned away and closed the door soundlessly behind him, leaving her. After a few moments, she lifted a baffled hand to her forehead, right where he kissed it, trying to preserve the fading touch of his lips.

Frustrated and elated by his reciprocation, she fell over sideways, cheek smooshed against the sheets, gazing at nothing.

It felt as if she was living a double life. In one, she was almost normal. She had a tight schedule, a potential boyfriend, and was living her supposed dream. But, in the other, she was pursuing a radically different course. It took place in the dead of night, in an ominous corner unknown to all. It carried foreshadowing omens and warnings, an eccentric nightmare.

From the outside, one would think she should be running away from it. But, in fact, she was doing the opposite—and doing so without any guilt or remorse. It was illogical, but it had captured her very soul.

It was the classic mind versus heart phenomenon. She had promised the angel she would return, but would it be easier to stop now, before she hurt Rurik? Her chest clenched at the thought, and she quickly swept the idea away.

Why couldn't she have it both ways? Why did she always have to choose? If she could just keep the secret, she could have it all, right? Hadn't she done the same thing with her father? Her mother still didn't know.

 _It would be just like old times_ , she assured herself naively as she entered another round of sleep.

* * *

This may have gone too far.

When she left, he had sulked back to his lair in the bowels of the massive palace, unsure of what to do for the rest of the afternoon. Deftly climbing and jumping through vents and secretive tunnels, he supposed he would do what he always did: Compose.

Arriving at the familiar area, he sat upon the worn bench and put his spider-like fingers upon the keys. He began a complicated opus he had been working on, letting the intricacies of the music serenade him into apathy. But like a flash of lightning on an otherwise clear day, her face struck.

He fumbled, his concentration ruined. There she was, in his brain, as beautiful as ever.

How could he simply sit _here_ while she was out _there_?

It was if she had magnetized him, and being apart was pointless, she would only drag him back to her. Rising up in frustration, he knocked the bench over as he did. He began to pace along the lakeside, on the cobbled stones.

Logic reminded him that patience was a virtue, one he should have mastered by now. Yet, intemperance roared its head. He needed more of her! Mere hours would never be enough.

It was madness not doing anything; his entire was beginning to catch fire. He had to put it out.

This was the main thought as he sprinted back the way he came, snagging a hoodie on the way. He knew exactly where she would be, for he had made it so. Another pang of shame gonged—he shouldn't have done that.

 _It was only a pipe!_ he defended.

It had been easy to follow her the first night as she went to dance practice at that detestable school, as if anyone sane could call it that. Protectiveness had surged within him when he realized what Hell she was enduring there.

Discreetly, he caught glimpses as he passed by vaguely. In one shot, it was summed up: She was despised.

The rest of the day he had leaned against the eastern wall, pretending to be a vagrant, in the blind spot of the windows and masked in the shade.

Throughout the entire ordeal of watching her avoid sabotage from the vipers, he knew he would have to retaliate.

When the place had emptied, he pick-locked the backdoor and entered with a rusted crowbar he found in the garbage. His potential muse needed a good day of peace.

He had made it back in plenty of time for their second meeting, not knowing when she would come again. Now, he was intent on having thirds, his gluttony knowing no bounds.

When he reached right under the floor's surface, he pushed a trapdoor up, and poked his head out. Usually no one was ever in this part of the _Garnier,_ but it never hurt to be careful. When the cost was clear he jumped expertly out, and then placed the loose tile back into position.

Pulling a hood over his face, he thrust his hands into his ripped-jean pockets and strode stealthily away, joining the new crowd of visitors entering the harried lobby. Trotting down the steps, he assumed she would be coming this way any minute.

Americans were easy to spot; they didn't carry themselves in the same way. Crossing his arms, putting an easygoing foot against a bench, he waited.

It only took a few minutes until her saw her. He could practically recite every inch of her from memory. That thick, dark chocolate hair pulled sweetly into its familiar bun. It took an awesome amount of self-control not to rush forward and unfurl her imprisoned locks.

When she came into full view, he no longer felt any empathy for his previous actions. Her once illuminated face was drawn, a weight sat cruelly on her shoulders. Every step seemed to add to it. Again, he had to clench his fists, had to anchor himself so he would not burst forth and swoop her off her sore feet.

As she passed into the mouth of the Scribe, he pushed off and began to follow her. The bellman looked in his direction, but he hid behind a group of incoming people, and entered the historic building. He never lost sight of her, and hurried to catch her elevator, which was luckily packed when he got in.

Turning away from the annoyed businessmen, he tugged his hood further down, just in case anyone tried to catch his reflection in the metal.

Her floor seemed to be popular, for almost everyone unloaded. Standing to the side, he waited for her to pass him and then trailed. Again, fortune smiled on him, and she went down a completely empty hall, breaking off.

The scent of her wafted against his skin, and he dug his nails into his palm. He made sure to keep a good distance between them, even though she was probably far too tired to notice anything consequential.

When her door was on the backswing, he surged forward and caught it with his toe. With bated breath, he heard the oncoming _thunk_ of her body collapsing onto the bed.

Looking around, he made sure the coast was clear before entering after.

It was uncomfortable at first, being there without her knowledge. Enthralled by her beauty, he nonetheless could not bring himself to retreat, standing as still as a statue by the nightstand. It was fascinating to him, every inhale and exhale, every flutter of her chest, and twitching lids. The more he studied her, the more obsessed he became.

Who was this perplexing creature who did not run at the sound of his voice? This woman who managed to swallow her fear and face the beast's roar?

They were only a foot apart. He removed his hood to get a better glance.

His entire face naked against the air was amazingly sweet, he so rarely didn't have something covering it. The deformed skin breathed, drinking in the bitter freedom.

Hours passed. His legs began to complain when darkness stole the sky. Heaving a quiet sigh, he assumed he would have to depart soon. Although she was still asleep, it was clear that it was not as heavy as when he first arrived, a sudden noise might startle her awake.

Silent as cat's paws, he crept toward the lamp and switched it on, needing just a little light to make an escape. Thankfully, her head was turned enough that she didn't notice. Sneaking away, he went for the door; however, as he padded, a knock reverberated.

Panic rose in his chest, he quickly searched for a hiding place.

"Nadya?" came an inquiring, Eastern-accented voice.

Dashing into a closet next to the entrance, he shut himself in and crouched, close to the ground, eyes narrowed. A second later, he heard her arousal. He could just barely see her through the splits as she trudged past him.

When the stranger entered, fury began to paint his vision a monstrous red. In his haste he had not realized that another cock was entering the roost.

How could he compete with _that_?

Strong, handsome, with a chiseled face that was completely offensive, any hopes of courting or even talking to the girl went down the drain.

"Hey Rurik…"

Why did that name sound so familiar? Puzzling it over, he paid no mind to the conversation they were sharing as the Russian entered. It came to him after a moment.

A _critic!_ he decried within.

He had never liked critics—they were too devious for their own good. Using their pens as leverage, they arrogantly strutted around like they owned the art they wrote about. They never trained in it, never cared for it. They only read about it in books and then presumed they could make worthy judgments.

 _Like children…or parasites…_ he grumbled.

Now the situation was different. He could not leave her to be ruined by this man. Certainly, he would take advantage of her innocence and exploit her. He saw the way Rurik smiled, saw right through his boyish charm.

He also observed how completely unaware she was—smiling back at the wolf in sheep's clothing.

 _Poor thing. He will break her heart._

He didn't know how he would, but it was inevitable. Renowned critics did not just simply swoop random girls off their feet, there had to be a purpose, she was picked for a reason.

Scrutinizing from the shadows, he almost ran out when he witnessed Rurik's subtle attempt. He had been sitting contently at the end of the bed, but as she spoke, he moved noticeably closer.

It was obvious now. The boy was trying to get lucky. Everything fit: A naïve American girl, isolated by her colleagues, striving for friendship, and how coincidental that a handsome knight should appear as if out of nowhere, offering sympathy and a shoulder to cry on.

It was the oldest trick in the book.

How could she not see that?

Perhaps she did, for her response was shifting into a defensive position—her arms cocooning her as she pulled her knees into her chest.

The boy halted his advance, causing the man in the closet to grin approvingly at his muse.

After only a half-an-hour, the critic stood to leave. He sighed, thanking whatever higher power that the ordeal was over.

But it wasn't.

He could only stare as the Russian landed a cheap kiss on her unassuming forehead. Nostrils flared, he made a mental note to strangle the fool in his sleep. He then whispered something, and turned to leave, walking right past him. The door clicked closed, she lifted a hand to her head and then fell over onto her side.

 _Bastard…_ he swore.

Plans began developing in his head. What could save her from the critic's clutches? She was an unknown talent in the ballet field, and would remain so under the suffocation of the studio. The Russian would surely use and discard her without anyone blinking an eye. But the wolf could not do so if she broke free. A lamb alone was easy prey, but if it surrounded itself with watchful eyes, the game became infinitely harder.

An idea formulated. It would be difficult to sway her, but this would not stop him from his rescue.

Silent snores resonated. Now was the time to go.

He pulled his hood up and smirked underneath.

If he was to be an angel, he would be an avenging one.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Hope you aren't too mad, but I may have taken a creative liberty... let me know what you think~**

The dance school was still closed. Again, she made her way to it, just to be greeted with a bundle of maintenance workers. Apparently, it was worse than she thought. The wood must have warped from the excessive water spill or something. It may not be available for another week!

She had slept for almost an entire day, and was feeling refreshed as she wandered lightly about the city. The day was young, but she could hardly wait for the night. She promised herself that she wouldn't stay out so late again, but with the studio's repairs, perhaps becoming a night owl wouldn't be too much of a problem.

Heading back to the hotel, she changed, relishing the feel of denim on her legs.

Adventurous, she picked a cafe at random and sat at one of the many, elegant tables outside, enjoying the sun on her skin. All the scene needed was a book or good conversation. Rurik was usually busy drafting and editing during the day, so she had hours of good ol' fashioned solitude ahead.

In Indianapolis, she treasured moments of isolation. Self-reliant, she had scorned company. Yet, now she found herself thoroughly bored and on edge. There seemed to be too much to do and see, and yet she had no desire to accomplish anything.

It was then that she realized that sight-seeing or lounging would not sate her thirst. She knew that what she really wanted to do was sing. The angel had created an itch that was now absolutely loathsome to ignore.

 _I wish I could sing with him now,_ she thought wistfully, glaring at the sun.

Then again, why couldn't she? Was there a rule that angels were unavailable during business hours? It may be potentially dangerous avoiding the far more alert guards, but it wasn't unthinkable. The Opera House was always horribly busy.

Giving a gander to the time, her stomach swirled at the thought of doing nothing for another six hours. Slumbering for so long had given her ample energy which sat unused in her system, taunting her.

"Screw it," she mumbled under her breath, and jumped out of the chair, leaving her espresso.

With a buzzing purpose, she arrived at the familiar, grandiose building quickly.

When she usually came here, it was after a shower or straight from practice. Today, however, she was dressed properly for the occasion. In her favorite faded jeans, she went with a thin, alluring see-through, cream-colored blouse that flowed nicely as she walked. Dark-chocolate hair worn in long waves for once and neat toes exposed in relatively chic sandals, she had a rush of confidence which invigorated her further.

Women in France were far more modish than her, wearing trends that hadn't even crossed the ocean yet. Nevertheless, she felt she had done her civic duty as she represented her Midwest style. It was purposeful, too, for the officers would definitely not recognize her, what with actual makeup on.

Even though it was unnatural, the universe did not fight her. The routine was becoming simple, and she gracefully made a way for the usual spot. Sentimental, she did pause for a moment to appreciate Persephone before turning the corner into the door-ridden hall.

The entryway stood as it always had and she entered.

It seemed different in daylight. Even though there were no windows, the aura of sunlight still permeated, making it seem far less threatening. Encouraged by this, she pondered bringing cleaning supplies to spruce the space up a bit. The dust was beginning to get on her nerves.

Nevertheless, she spotted the clear space on the floor from her last sit. Trying to mimic the outline, she was pleased when only a smattering of dirty powder marred the hem of her pants. Yet, it also made her feel constrained to remain in one spot, so she instead decided to stand. Eyes adjusting, she lit the candles, and stood, facing the larger mirror.

Skin going clammy, there was a mysticism to the ritual. The flickering of wicks, the haunting reflection, and the forgotten room added to the experience. All it needed was the alluring, addictive, supernatural voice that seemed to live within the very walls.

In a happier mood, she decided to forgo the tragic melodies. Her nerves began to excite as she readied her lungs.

" _Say you'll love me every waking moment._

 _Turn my head with talk of summertime..."_

Snapping his head up, hands frozen on the ebony keys, he immediately hopped over the bench and sprinted into the tunnels.

" _Say you need me with you now and always."_

Running like a dog returning to its owner, he quieted his steps the closer he got to the two-way mirror. Throat caught, he took a moment to marvel at her beauty.

She had always been lovely to him, but now she was all the sweeter, like strawberries with a dollop of cream on top.

Standing with poise, she was directly in front of him. Eyes closed as she sang, chin tilted upward, he could watch her for eternities.

" _Promise me that all you say is true._

 _That's all I ask of you."_

And what was it she was singing? A love song? To him?

Jubilant, euphoric, he could hardly believe it. His insecurity threatened to sting him the more hopeful he became, but he did not heed it.

Silence reigned, and she opened her doe eyes and peered expectantly into the reflection, a sparkle of joy twinkling in her pupils. It was clear she was waiting for his response, the electric air was still, the calm before the storm.

Not wanting to disappoint, a new voracity colored his tune. He unleashed his voice, breaking the dam.

" _Let me be your shelter. Let me be your light."_

When the sound reverberated, it took all of her strength not to collapse. It had been the stuff of Olympus before, but now it was Apollo himself. Completely engulfed in his enthralling harmonies, she swayed like a charmed snake.

Without even noticing the lyrics, she could only marvel.

It was bitter when it ended, like swallowing chalky pills. It had stunned her to the point where singing back felt wrong.

Seeing her reaction at first gave him even more bursts of buoyancy, but now she wasn't answering.

Did he do something wrong?

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she collapsed to the ground, knees no longer holding her. He cringed, and despair entered back into his soul. Tears were threatening, her lip quivered. Had it been so horrible? Like watching a train wreck, he dared not move or breathe as she desperately tried to get a hold of her emotions.

Depression sobered the once radiant mood, his worst fears confirmed. He had made himself vulnerable, of course she would spite him.

As she composed her turbulent thoughts, she knew that this duet, this back-and-forth was not enough for her.

"Angel," she called normally, throat thick.

Like a hopeless romantic, his interest sparked.

"Please," she begged, water dripping daintily down her olive cheeks. "Come to me."

His very blood sought to obey, but he knew he needed a dash of time, needed an appropriate entrance. Storming out of the mirror now might send her into shock.

Not knowing whether to sing or speak, he instead thought of a third option. Searching his pockets desperately, he luckily found a scrap of paper and pen, which he kept with him when inspiration hit. Smoothing out the crumpled sheet as best he could, he scribbled a message onto it.

Through a small slit in the secretive doorway, he shoved it through.

A blizzard of warring emotions plagued her heart. How could she possibly expect an appearance? Wasn't this all just in her head anyway?

Then, in the mess, something glided toward her. It fluttered softly and then landed peacefully on the ground. Picking it tentatively up while wondering where it had come from, she held it to her face.

It was a scrap of paper, completely ordinary. Yet the script upon it was lavish, with swirling, cursive letters that flirted with perfection.

It said:

 _"You shall know me."_

Gasping, she scrambled backward into the vanity desk, rattling it loudly.

 _Then...it was real!_ she screamed within.

He quickly dashed away. It was time.

Fear and anticipation threatened to continuously overwhelm her. But there was also a drive to know the truth, to match face and voice. Inside she knew there was a chance this was no angel or god at all, but still enraptured by his song, the warnings of reason faded.

Eagerly, she jumped to her feet, brushing herself off nervously. When did he intend to come? Was he here now? Thousands of humming questions purred, dazing her. Somewhere in this haze, there was a distinct buzz. It came from below, centered in her forgotten satchel. It was her cell, she figured. Mindlessly, she picked the purse up and took out the phone.

Rurik's name lighted up the screen and for some strange reason she answered, but did not speak into it.

"Hello? Hello? Nadya?" came the faint murmur.

"Yes?" she squeaked after a minute.

An exhale of relief.

"Nadya where are you?" it tried again. "I've been trying to reach you all day."

Perplexed by the franticness in his tone, she was beginning to snap back to reality when _it_ started again.

" _Flattering child, you shall know me."_

Losing any control or self-awareness, she barely whispered:

"Got to go."

She dropped the phone.

"What is that voice?"

" _See why in shadow I hide."_

Eyes widening, her body and mind could not deny his pull.

" _Look at your face in the mirror."_

She complied, but only saw herself.

"Who is that there?!" Rurik bellowed.

" _I am there inside."_

A terrible form emerged from the deep shadows hidden within the mirror. Barely noticeable at first, she narrowed her eyes to see him, but then he was suddenly there, in full view.

Clad in simple clothes, he wore a worn black leather jacket and tattered, darkened jeans. His hair was wild as it crept over his forehead. It was as dark as the gloom that surrounded him, making it difficult to discern man from shadow.

What stood out was his pallid, ghostly skin, but even more so was the haunting mask that sat upon the right side of his face. It was a brilliant golden color, exuding an angelic sparkle in the midnight background; however, it was also alarming. She recognized the stereotypical tragedy face of the theater, with its hyperbolized frown, but this interpretation was far from cliché.

It appeared hand-made, with painstaking detail that she could not spot but which nonetheless gave it an otherworldly aspect. For a moment, she wondered if it was the original inspiration, the first tragedy.

Where the frown pulled down, it cut off, revealing his thin, pale lips.

Like the mirrors, they stood facing one another. Then, before she could awaken from the trance, his paranormal mouth opened, gaping.

But instead of atrocious teeth or a cobra's tongue, there was only the same splendor.

" _I am your angel of music. Come to the angel of music."_

It consumed her again and, as if separated from her body, she began to move toward him. His long, spindly hand extended to her, encouraging. A marionette, she could not refuse him.

" _I am your angel of music. Come to the angel of music."_

Captivated by the man and the music, she could not look away from his burning stare. An ever flaming fire flickered in his cobalt irises, hot as hell, cold as ice, the ninth ring of Hell come to life.

They were only a foot apart.

" _Come to the angel of music."_

There was no going back, she placed her hand in his.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Just wanted to say thank you Guests and Arianna! Your reviews mean the world!**

* * *

Hand-in-hand they went.

Body still numb and hollow, she stumbled along with him in the dark cavern. Tugging her gently but firmly, he constantly looked back at her, hardly believing it.

The sounds of their footsteps echoed against the dank walls, old lanterns barely held onto the brick, threatening to fall.

It still had not hit her. The events taking place were surreal, in denial. The tragic side of his face hung mystically, shimmering oddly as it bobbed up and down, it captured most of her attention. Dreamlike, something like that should not exist in the real world. Its permanent golden wail reminded her of a soul attempting to break free from the gates of Hell. Angel or demon?

Terror was clawing its way to her, he could see her face pale progressively. When she had accepted his hand, he had stopped singing, for he had not actually believed she would willingly accept.

Now, however, he was filled with anxiety that she would wake up from the trance and begin to scream. He must attempt to alight her spirit, must distract her from his hideousness.

" _Sing once again with me,"_ he encouraged softly, and the brilliance of the tune instantly blanketed her fears with an uneasy calm.

His cataclysmic eyes smoldered into hers, even in the dark they blazed. Her knees went weak, and she stumbled, but he was quick, and steadied her easily. Although lanky, there was also an unseen strength, another mystery to unravel. At the touch of his other hand on her thinly-veiled arm, she trembled. Voltage passed between them.

" _Our strange duet,"_ he continued, and they had halted their progression.

The chill of his breath sent a current of shock from the tip of her spine to her toes. Unconsciously, she leaned into him.

 _"My power over you grows stronger yet."_

At this obvious warning, she glanced tentatively over her shoulder.

" _And though you turn from me, to glance behind."_

She connected their gazes once more, his arms cocooning her loosely. The mask stared through her soul as it closed in, but she could not react, could only dumbly follow his lead.

 _"The Phantom of the Opera is there. Inside your mind,"_ he whispered in her ear.

She had once asked him if he was friend or phantom. Resigned to his fate, this was his answer.

The cogs in her head spun too quickly for her to understand, but the draw of his invitation overrode all sensation. His mask, voice, aura, everything about him seemed to be a black hole that was continually pulling her in. Withdrawing, he then heaved her to a wobbly standing position and continued his slow pace down the midnight hall.

The tingle of his skin set a fire within. Angel or not, he was real, and it comforted her that she could actually interact with such a peculiar being. He was concrete, right in front of her, not an immaterial spirit that existed only in her mind.

Focusing all energy, she responded:

" _Those who have seen your face, draw back in fear."_

Though his back stiffened, he did not stop.

 _"I am the mask you wear."_

He gave a tight nod and turned half-way, his observable face saddened as he sang:

" _It's me they hear."_

Compassion gonged, and an instinct to protect this poor creature surged. Face softened, she felt the crushing terror ease in her chest.

 _"My spirit and your voice, in one combined."_

Now perplexed, she saw his cold, jet black brow raise in disbelief.

" _The Phantom of the Opera is there,_ " she agreed with something between a grimace and smile on her lips. " _Inside my mind."_

His oddly light eyes widened. There was hope!

With a sharp intake of breath, he doubled their speed. Clinging to his arm like life-support, she managed to keep her balance as her feet fumbled.

" _In all your fantasies,"_ he sang, almost laughing, sending a quirky vibrato into the air. " _You always knew that man and mystery..."_

 _"Were both in you,"_ she completed sagely.

Suddenly he turned a corner and then stopped again. Letting go of her carefully, he made sure she was able to stand when he hauled a large, loose piece of rock out from the ground, exposing a seemingly endless hole.

Placing the boulder to the side, he hopped down. Gone for a second in the shadows, she then saw his long, bony arms stretch through the floor.

Understanding that he wanted her to jump, she crouched apprehensively and eased into the gap. Falling for less than a second, his uncannily muscular hands caught her. The same spark ignited at his touch. It was certain he felt it too, for he didn't let her go. She took that moment to breathe in his scent: A mix of incense, ink, and worn leather, it was more proof that he existed.

Then resigned, he set her on the floor with a sigh, still holding her satin hand.

" _And in this labyrinth..."_ he started again when they continued walking.

" _Where night is blind,"_ she finished.

" _The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my/your mind,"_ they sang together, each note mingling with the other in a haunting embrace.

The acoustics were far better now, she could hear his divine birdsong echo forever. Nonetheless, it was even darker here, bordering on pitch black. Perhaps that added to the resonance, enhancing the other senses.

It was clear they were declining, she heard pebbles bounce as they cascaded into the depths. Spasms of dread would force her to cling all the more to her guide.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she concluded that they were going further underneath the _Palais_ , into the pits.

" _Sing, my_ _Angel of Music,"_ he ordered when silence threatened.

Noticing the switch of roles, she could do nothing but submit to his will.

" _He's there, the Phantom of the Opera."_

It was good, subtle and harmless, but he knew she could do better. There was more power to be discovered.

" _Sing."_

Letting go of lyrics, she only began to test her range, letting the soprano out.

" _Sing!_ "

Determined to impress him, she expanded her lungs and abdomen, climbing into the peaks. Like tinkling bells it reverberated throughout the cavern, fading into loving tones only to be heightened by the second wave.

There was still more.

" _Sing, my angel! Sing!"_

She had never ascended so high before, she could not go down. Yet her gift did not betray her as it carried her beyond the clouds, toward the zenith where only birds went.

"Yes...yes..." he prodded.

It felt as if her soul was trying to escape through her mouth, resurfacing. She held the note devotedly, but one more notch would certainly do it. The entrance to his lair was coming into view, he saw the velvet curtains.

Blissfully unaware, her eyes were shut as she poured all of her trust on him. Completely engrossed in her efforts, she was only vaguely conscious to the fact that they had slowed down.

" _Sing for me!"_ he shouted suddenly.

Resembling an exquisite but murderous scream, she finally hit the note and ceased. There was no more air to give, the altitude too much. The unmistakable touch of carpet swayed softly against her open toes, she opened her eyes.

A place out of time, but with a few modern commodities, she marveled. Light bulbs hung dimly from the high ceiling, she could not see the top. It had the effect of making it seem as though the bulbs were levitating, like magic.

A grand, pristine piano sat front and center upon a cobbled stage. Everything else was centered around it: The simple, black cot, the quaint desk that had hundreds of music sheets clustered on it, and the hand-made shelves that leaned casually against the eastern wall.

Trinkets and Gothic, dramatic candles were scattered everywhere. Following the wick trail, she noticed that a silent lake sat beside them, reflecting the ambiance. Surprised, she shifted closer to him. He put a comforting hand on her shoulder, his arctic skin piercing through the thin blouse.

It certainly wasn't an angel's den, but was nonetheless intriguing.

Moss clung to the stones, she wondered how long this place had been here. Centuries, no doubt, maybe longer. It was a piece of the past, an ancient island below the steps of the modern world above. Turning to face him, she tried to figure out his purpose for living in such a place.

No answers twinkled in his eyes or were given away by his poignant, half-exposed face. He stared at her as if waiting for something.

Perhaps the only key to the secret was the mask.

Stretching on her toes, she attempted to peer closer at him. Rigid, he allowed her to come within a few inches, but then leapt away from her. Stung by his rejection, she could still feel the inferno of his eyes and the frost of his touch. Her face blushed a deep red.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, head bowed.

She hadn't noticed, but his regular voice was just as baffling. When he sang, it was powerful, displaying a mastery of range and precision. Yet his normal oration tended to be extremely light and airy but strained, like he wasn't sure how to speak correctly, or at least was out of practice.

Unsure how to entertain guests, especially _this_ one, he went to the familiar.

Passively she followed as he strode toward the spotlighted piano. One of the few bulbs was swinging right above it as he sat gracefully upon the bench. If she thought his singing was miraculous, his skill on the piano was just as good, if not better.

Yet, it did not have the same effect. Whereas the former sent her flying, the latter sent her back to the nest. A powerful weariness crippled her remaining resolve, the experience overwhelming. The strikes on the keys only worsened the feeling, a perfect lullaby.

Vision darkening, mind sinking, she managed to reach him and place a slender hand on his back. Instantly he whipped around, just in time to catch her as she swooned. Not surprised, he nonetheless took a moment to bask in her beauty as she lay helpless in his arms. His murkier instincts snarled, but she was too important to betray.

He did content himself with lightly fingering her chin, and then lightly brushed the neck, stopping when he hit the collarbone.

It was softer than he thought.

Restraining himself, he scooped her legs up. He effortlessly lifted and carried her to an unseen compartment hidden by a luxurious drape. Pulling the rope, the elegant shroud parted, revealing a comfortable burrow with soft blankets and a bundle of feathered pillows.

It wasn't a bed, but it was just as good, he mused.

Setting her down like a precious child, he studied her lovingly as he placed her upon the cushions. Her rich hair sprawled artistically, creating a halo. In sleep, her inhibitions and worries were wiped away leaving her expression serene. Resentfully, he wished that he could have such an effect on her when she was awake.

Closing the curtain slowly, he stood, peering through the veil.

" _You alone can make my soul take flight,"_ he serenaded.

At his voice she sighed contently and succumbed to a deeper slumber.

" _Help me make the music of the night."_


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Warning: Language**

The first thing she heard coming out of a bottomless sleep was music.

Lashes flickering, she groaned as she sat up with effort. It felt as if she had been hit by a truck. A massive number of pillows surrounded her as well as a thick polyester blanket that enveloped her body.

A layered veil blocked her from seeing whoever was on the keys. Throbbing memories pounded, all at once trying to burst in.

Where was she?

The piano in the background played on, its intricate ballad was in odd contrast with her confused state. Lifting a hand to her head, she tried to recall what had happened.

"Ok...ok...ok..." she chanted quietly to herself, worried that the composer beyond the curtain was un-friendly.

Apparently he was too engrossed, and did not hear her panicked murmurs.

"I remember..." she struggled. "There was a voice..."

Twinkling notes tip-toed on the air.

"...and it led me through a... tunnel...?"

The chords cascaded into a somber, low tune.

"...so dark..."

The tempo pace swirled into a steady _andante_.

Mindlessly, she whisked the coverlet off and stood.

"...there were candles all around..." she noted as she noticed the faint illumination of said candles burn dimly beyond the veil.

Tentatively, she reached out and slowly swiped the velveteen barrier away.

As she laid her eyes upon the lair, everything flooded back.

"...there was a man..."

Finding him easily at the center of the den upon his usual bench, hands at the white and black keys, he played furiously. It seemed impossible for one person to create so much, but he did it. It was a forlorn, complex piece that would rise to frightening crescendos and then sway back into solemnity. He played so fluidly, she could practically see the intended story unfold.

Clearly, it was meant to be an epic tragedy.

Compelled to creep closer, she only saw the slight glimmer of the phantom's mask, for his back was turned, hunched over his prized possession, his only companion.

Still in the same leather, jean garb, did he ever sleep?

"Who was that shape in the shadows?" she pondered allowed.

At this, he froze, and the music harshly cut off. Unabated, she treaded apprehensively toward him. When her steps brushed onto the stone, he twisted his unkempt head to her. An equal uneasiness was in his eye as she approached.

Stopping just before him, she peered curiously down. Surely this was a dream, she assumed. All inside her mind...

Captivated by her, the way she was seemingly unafraid, unaffected, he remained motionless.

"Who is the face in the mask?" she squeaked.

Too quick for him to act, he felt as his guise was wrenched from his face. Blind rage exploded within him simultaneously.

"Dammit!" he howled, flinging a music stand to the wall, shattering it.

Stomping away from her, he covered his right side with his hand, spitting profanities.

Petrified, she fell to the hard, stone ground, the mask still clutched in her bruising hand, unable to look away from his rampage, to notice the scratches on her forearms.

"Fucking girl!" he swore, snarling, smashing anything in his path. "What have you done?!"

The very floor trembled as he destroyed his own home. Stamping to the water's edge, he glanced at his murky, wavering reflection, which aggravated him further.

Unmitigated fury reigned over all senses. Turning quickly to her, he charged. Hair even more wild, bouncing in several different directions, his uncovered eye was feral, a perpetual inferno directed at her, scalding her the closer he got.

"Is this what you wanted to see?!" he yelled, a cruel finger pointed at his face.

Quaking with fright upon the cold brick, she said nothing, did nothing.

Whisking back around, his shoulders hunched over more with each abhorrent step away.

"Now that you've seen it..." he whimpered into the damp air. "...you can never be free..."

Only his heavy breathing was heard, hers was caught, unable to escape.

Self-loathing and cold calculation began to ice the anger. Swearing profusely for another moment, he took a long breath, straightening.

Completely unsure how he was going to act next, she scooted away from him as he once again came back to her. Before they had been like magnets, now they were repulsive to one another. Sighing, he crouched to her level a few yards away, stopping his advance, pleading.

"Worse than you thought," he presumed, hollow voice just above a whisper. "Can you even look at me? At this...this _loathsome gargoyle_ who burns in Hell, but secretly..."

He inhaled pointedly. Her heart was softening at his tear-jerking confession, but her body was rigid with fear, on complete shutdown, unwilling to bend.

"...stupidly...yearns for Heaven...?" a fragile tear rolled out of his haunted eye.

When the liquid drop plummeted to the ground, a monster's remorse, she began to thaw as well. Raw, she inched toward him carefully. Unlike her, he did not move away.

She had been right, the mask was hand-crafted. Unsure of what material, it was certainly not plastic but it had a purposeful flexibility; however, it was made to snap obediently back into place, to cling uniformly. A translucent string ran across the back. The frown lines were delicately carved and painted, the depressed eye drooped expressively, it seemed that it was always on the verge of weeping violently, as if it would come alive just to cry.

The golden color would appear to be an unconventional choice for such a piece, but it worked. It reminded her of an angel in mid-fall who was still clothed in glory but knew its ultimate fate.

Only a few feet away, she extended it to him, a peace offering, an apology. Snatching it savagely, he twisted back around, balanced on his toes, and positioned it back into its familiar spot. As he did he relinquished a relieved exhale.

Then he stood and turned to offer her a hand. Taking it, her face was crestfallen, ashamed of her rash action. Yet, there was also a bloodcurdling fear. She had not gotten a full glance of the deformity, but she had seen enough. All she could think of was fire, of skin melting off bone, bloody wax. The second phase of the fall, all luminosity gone in the pits of Hades, there was no grace for the archangel who had become the devil.

There was nothing left to say, but he had to try to make her understand, make her realize her place in his plans.

Suddenly he grasped her hands, holding them protectively. Limp, she was completely drained, unable to snap away. She stared emptily back at him, ignoring the spark of his skin.

"Don't I deserve a chance at love?" he asked with a hint of aggression at first which then collapsed into despair. "Oh, Nadya..."

And she could not answer him. His previous words still stung like stab wounds. It was too much to absorb: A fallen angel, a warped face, and soul-igniting passion. He had been her reason to sing again. Swallowing densely, she choked down a sob.

"Please," she begged, gazing into that split face. "Take me back."

The sliver of hope within him crumbled. The threat of loneliness, of remaining in exile from humanity, away from her, away from her voice...it crushed him.

Yet still trying to prove that he wasn't a complete beast, he consented, leading her back. It was a far less magical trip. There was the awkward situation of pulling her through the hole from the other side, which still sent of flurry of shocks up her spine when he laid his hands on hers, but otherwise it was deadly silent.

A light at the end of the dark tunnel, she saw it for what it was now: The mirror was a doorway, a cheap parlor trick.

Disillusioned, he brought her to the edge of the corridor, but did not cross the boundary between lair and real world.

She crossed her arms and blushed fiercely, not sure what to say as she stepped out. Before she could decide whether to thank him or scream, he spoke.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, his strange tone defeated. "For everything. If you choose to never return..." he gulped. "I-I will understand."

And with that, he was gone, his fading form disappeared beyond the closed mirror. When she was sure he was out of ear shot, she began to break down. Crumpling, she put her grieved head in her hands, letting the pent up emotions of the last day have their way.

She had not wanted this. Everything had been floating up in the air. She thought she could keep it balanced on the tightrope, but gravity said otherwise. All she had built over the last few years crashed down around her. It wasn't just the fact she had truly believed that the voice was an angel, not just the fact that she had let her wounded heart hope, but that it all had been smoke and mirrors.

Betrayed. That was the word.

It was a similar feeling, a familiar one. It was the same as what she had experienced at dad's funeral two years ago as she stared at his bleak coffin. Her father had promised her...he _promised_ her! Vowed that he would never leave her side, made a pact. One he broke.

Sure, she could counter that it wasn't his fault, he obviously did not want to die, but she couldn't help the anger, couldn't calm the storm that raged behind a passive semblance.

Fury turned to idealism, fantasy, the scourge of broken memories. Now she was back to ire, full circle.

 _War upon them both!_ she thought rashly. _I don't need anyone! All they do is lie..._

Giving one last sniffle, she clenched her fists and stood resolutely, a deserter against the firing squad.

Jaw raised tightly, she spat out:

" _The tears I might have shed for your dark fate grow cold, and turn to tears of hate!"_

Earsplitting yet lovely as always, she hoped he heard it in whatever cave he now lurked. Pivoting on a heel, she hurried away, slamming the door on her way.

Indeed, he did hear it. It pierced him to the core, but he could not deny the accusation. Picking up the downed bench, he sat upon it with a blank, numbed expression. It was not his first dance with revulsion, and would not be his last.

Half-hearted, dismal arpeggios reverberated weakly. The gargoyle turned back to stone.


End file.
